On Seeing A Postcard Of An Angel Pinned To A Treetrunk In Woodbastwick Fen At my feet a split log is becoming soil. New life cannot wait and spring shoots have no time for decay. Already the purple sugared buds of an alder stem are rowing their firm zigzag out of a crack in the wood. Like whispered prayers pencils of sedge push up all around, rolled tightly in on their new green selves. So why wait for salvation? Out of this rotten body I'll grow something perfect right now. There's an itch at my shoulders already, feathers prick under the skin. next poem